Countdown
by PeopleLiveHere
Summary: The Angels have fallen, and Cas is to blame. (I haven't watched s9 yet, so this is post s8 but NOT s9) Caution- this is veeeeery angsty and does not have a happy ending, if you choose to see it that way.


_**10...**_

Castiel stared out the window sadly. Days before he had watched the angels streak from the sky, like comets. Crying, screaming comets. He felt awful, his stomach twisting into knots at the thought of it. "They're falling," Metatron had whispered into his ear , and Castiel had fallen to his knees desperately, his body suddenly unable to hold his own weight.

_**9...**_

"Fuck Cas!"

A lamp shot across the room and shattered against the wall. Castiel watched it numbly. Dean was angry, pissed. His fists were clenched at his side and there was a hole in the wall behind him. It was Castiel's fault, and Dean made the fact glaringly obvious.

Sam came in from a few rooms away and tried to calm his brother, which kind of worked, but Dean couldn't be helped.

"What'd you say to him?" Sam asked, moving towards the corner where Cas stood.

"That the angels fell... And that it was my fault."

_**8...**_

Sam was getting better every day so Dean was less pent up all the time. He was still mad at Cas for falling for Metatron's trick, but he promised to keep Cas safe in the bunker. Cas still felt his glare's every once in awhile. Sam was more sympathetic to Cas' cause, but Cas still felt unwelcome in the bunker. That was new, he thought.

_**7...**_

"What're we going to do about Cas?"

Cas couldn't sleep. He hadn't since he fell about... a week ago. There were the few occasional naps here and there, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the orange-ish streaks darting across the blackened sky and he would awaken in a panic.

So he stood up from his bed and walked towards the front of the bunker, looking for the kitchen.

"What're we going to do about Cas?"

He heard his name and paused, then saw Dean's room a few steps forward. There was a dim light emanating from the small opening. It was Dean speaking, to Sam most likely. He felt bad for eavesdropping, but they were talking about him, and he needed to hear.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. He heard the sound of a page turning. They were doing research. He felt a lonely pang in his chest at that. Since the fall they always researched with him, but they were leaving him out now. He was alone...

"If the fallen angels catch word that Cas is the reason they fell, we'll have a mob here. And you're sick so we can't fight off an army of a thousand pissed off douchebags," he said.

"What are you planning? Kicking him out? Cas is our friend, Dean," he said.

"He's putting us in danger," Dean said. His voice was gruff and angry.

"Dean-"

"Sam."

"Dean, I'm not talking to you about this anymore. We can't kick Cas out and leave him to die. He's our family, just as much as I am."

Cas heard a book slam on the table and he backed away into the library next door as Sam stormed out. He shut the door quietly and leaned against the wood, then buried his face in his hands.

_**6...**_

Cas was hunting with them in a nearby town. It was nothing big, just a ghost in an attic. Sam had come against Dean's will, so he stood between the two. It was quiet in the room. Cas kept his head down and his lips sealed. He felt like an old unwanted dish rag, torn to shreds and unusable. He'd done what he could for the Winchesters, and now he was _useless_. There was nothing he could do for them anymore.

A lamp on the far side of the room fell over, then there was a terrible scream. They all 3 jumped, and Sam and Dean pulled their guns out, armed with rock salt. Cas followed suit with his after seeing them.

A woman appeared in the center of the room and outstretched her hand slowly, then came toward Cas in a blur. A few gunshots went off and she disappeared, but not before throwing Cas against a wall. He fell into a crumpled heap, and pain shot through his torso. There was a pause before he cried out in pain. Human pain.

"Sam, get Cas. I'll find the glove."

Sam scowled, then ran to help him. Cas raised his hand up and backed away.

"Nonono, I'm fine. Just, help Dean."

"Cas? No, let me help."

"No! I'm fine! Don't let me distract you!"

"Distract? I don't-"

"Sam!" Dean's voice interrupted. Sam turned quickly and Castiel worked on standing up. There was a gun shot and a high shriek, then Sam turned back to Cas. Cas was standing, sort of, He was leaning heavily against the wall, and he was breathing painfully. Sam tried to help him but Cas shooed him away wordlessly. "Cas, your rib is broken, you need help."

Cas' eyes shot open and he looked up at Sam. "No, go help Dean. I-I'm fine, I promise," he gasped. Sam looked conflicted, but he ran to Dean and kept watch out for the ghost lady while Dean rummaged through a case for the glove.

Cas pulled his shirt over his stomach gently and saw that his right side was red and swollen. He lightly pressed his fingers to it and cringed as he felt the bone shift underneath. Yep, broken, just as Sam said. He let his shirt down and leaned against the wall more, trying to breathe at a steady pace. It hurt to breathe in, and he felt light-headed.

"_Useless_" he mouthed as his vision started to go black. He fought it, but it won. "_Weak_, _useless_."

The wood brought the back of his shirt up as he slid downwards, and he felt long scratches form on his back. '_That'll hurt tomorrow_,' he thought before he fell heavily to the floor.

_**5...**_

The bed was too hard and made his rib ache uncomfortably. That was how he awoke the next day, a sharp pain jetting through his body. He cried out, arching against the bed in an attempt to stop the pain. It was an ill advised move, as it only made it worse. The pain blurred his vision and he faintly heard a frantic beeping, but it sounded distant, like he was listening through wool. He saw the outline of a nurse race in and she pressed down on his shoulders. "Stay still, sir," she demanded. He fell flat on the bed, and she pressed a few buttons to his left.

After about 10 minutes the pain was gone, and he felt a little disappointed. A small voice in the back of his mind told he deserved it, that the pain he felt would never amount to the pain that his fallen brothers and sisters felt. He tried to ignore it as best he could, but he couldn't help but agree.

There was a small knock on the door and Dean came in. "Hey Cas," he said. Cas tried to sit up but a sharp pain stopped him. Dean sat beside the bed and sighed.

"Hello Dean," he said. His broken voice startled him.

"Sam says you've been acting strange lately. Wanna tell me why?"

"I'm unsure what you mean by strange," he said carefully. It was a lie, which surprised him. Lying came easily to him now, and he didn't feel so bad about it.

"He said you wouldn't let him help you."

"You needed help. The ghost-"

"Is a ghost. It's not exactly a big deal. I could hunt those with my eyes shut."

Not exactly a big deal? He flinched at that, the pain reminding him that something that was 'Not exactly a big deal' had nearly killed him. _Weak. Useless._

Cas didn't know how to respond to that so he kept his mouth shut.

"You've been acting like a middle child lately, you know that?"

Silence.

"Cas, talk to me. Please?"

"I'm fine," he said quietly. He wished he had his wings again, so he could just disappear now, just leave and go back up to heaven and relax, alone.

Dean sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. "Whats goin' on inside your head right now, Cas? Please tell me, because I want to know."

"I don't even know anymore. Ever since I fell I can't control my thoughts. There's too many, and they're all mixing together and they come and go so fast that I can't understand them and the only ones that stick are the ones I don't really want to think about."

"Like what?" Dean asked.

"Lately..." Cas stopped, wondering if he should tell Dean the two words that had been floating around in his head. He decided against it. Dean would think him pathetic, like a child. "Nothing."

Dean looked down at Cas' hand. "Listen, Cas, after what happened, Sam and I think it would be better if you left the business. You should find yourself a wife, have two-and-a-half kids, settle down."

Cas didn't react. He felt his heart constrict in his chest, like a snake had latched onto it, but he showed no signs that he felt that. He looked out the window and sighed softly.

"Okay."

_**4...**_

The apartment was tiny. It was a studio, which basically meant that the only thing that wasn't crammed into the first room was the toilet and shower. Sam and Dean generously bought him the necessities, and helped him get a job at a gas station. They said they'd visit him monthly, to check up on him, and he just nodded wordlessly. They put a gun in his closet and a knife in his drawer for protection, then left.

After they left he took a scalding hot shower then went to bed. It was still fairly early, 5pm, but he shut the dusty blinds so his room was somewhat dark and laid in bed. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to think about something that wasn't the Winchesters, or Dean at least. It hurt that Dean was the one to kick him out because, honestly, he loved Dean. They shared a 'profound bond.' He'd pulled Dean from the pits of Hell, and essentially fallen for it, and Dean threw him out like a sick dog.

Cas turned in his bed and kicked the sheets off. He wondered vaguely if he'd eaten today. He hadn't, but his stomach was flipping in his belly and he felt like if he ate he'd throw up.

He looked around the room, taking in the empty walls. There were no pictures, no memories. It was hollow, and meaningless, and different. He missed the bunker, and the way Sam and Dean's laughter could be heard echoing down the long halls. He missed them, even if they probably didn't miss him.

Cas buried his face in his pillow and groaned. He felt like he was swimming in syrup and this was all just a bad dream. He wanted to wake up and reach out and feel his wings, and he wanted to leave Earth and all it cruel intentions behind. He wanted to see Dean again.

_**3...**_

Cas woke to the sound of rain and wondered when he'd even fallen asleep. His last waking memory was of the harsh red letters of his alarm clock reading 5:34 am, and him frustrated that he couldn't even do something so human as falling asleep.

His alarm rang a few minutes after he woke. He turned it off and undressed for another scalding hot shower. He stretched, careful to not irritate his healing rib, then climbed into the steamy shower.

When he got out he dressed in his uniform, a bright red thing that hurt his tired eyes, and grabbed his car keys and drove off. The rain made it difficult to drive, but he managed safely.

The gas station was off a highway exit so they were fairly busy. He felt like a robot, taking the money, checking them out, unlocking the pump. When his 8 hour shift was finally over he drove home, tired, and worn out. He wondered if every day was so... repetitive. He wondered if, after all these years watching and protecting humanity, if he was destined to such a boring, futile life. He used to fly among the stars, now he was taking money from angry truckers who cursed at him a lot.

His shower that night turned his skin bright red.

_**2...**_

He stared at the gun in his drawer for a long time that night, running a finger over the well-oiled metal. He didn't exactly remember pulling it out, but he didn't want to put it away. There were 6 bullets in it, and a box with 7 more beside it. It was a 1911 A1 semi-automatic .45 caliber colt (not THE Colt) with a pearl handle. It was Dean's, he recognized. He used it quite a lot, he remembered.

He set it on the nightstand, then clicked the safety off.

It was still raining. Cas stood off his bed and walked over toward the window. The raindrops raced toward the bottom pane slowly, steadily. He was on the 3 rd floor, and he could see the people quickly walking home in the rain. They clutched their things close to their chest, some with umbrellas, and they sped to their homes. Cars passed and he watched their headlights disappear in the distance, blurred by the downpour. He sunk down to his knees and rested his head on the cold glass. His heart ached in his chest and he closed his eyes. He felt like crap. His head ached and he'd lost 5 pounds since he fell. He felt _weak. _Maybe because of the fall, maybe because he hadn't eaten in nearly a week, maybe because he hadn't had a good nights rest since he fell. Since he watched his brothers and sisters fall.

He thought of the gun on the nightstand.

A siren wailed in the distance and he suddenly snapped to full consciousness, like he'd been aroused from an almost sleep.

' _Do it _.'

He grabbed the gun and stuck it in the drawer, shaking the poisonous thoughts from his head.

_**1...**_

He was out of his mind, he'd decided. The walls felt like they were pressing in on him, easing closer and closer. The blank, empty walls in this hollow house. He wanted to be out of this state, which had been raining for nearly 3 days now, off and on. He hadn't seen the sun unobstructed by the dark grey clouds in nearly a week, and he was tired of this. He was so used to being able to travel the universe at a whim that this, being trapped down to one spot by his job and his lack of decent transportation, felt awful. He hadn't eaten in so long that his hair was falling out and his skin was dry and disgusting. The scalding showers were leaving sore spots on his body and his rib was starting to ache. His eyes were sore from lack of sleep and he was shaking.

He called Sam and Dean but they didn't pick up. He wondered if they were on a hunt, or if they were ignoring him. He tried not to think of the latter too much.

The night was closing in fast, as nights in December (or was in February now) tend to do. He hated nights, since he couldn't sleep anymore. He just laid there and hoped tonight would be different, that he wouldn't dream of the pained wails of his brothers and sisters, that he wouldn't see the orange stars falling from the pitch black sky.

He remembered Dean would drink when he was down, so with the remainder of the money Sam and Dean had given him he went to the liqueur store and bought Whiskey, Dean's favourite. He drove home and opened the first bottle of eight. He sipped at it first. It burned as it went down, but he ignored that. It was kind of pleasant, actually. He drank it quickly, disregarding the traditional style of putting it in a shot glass. When he was done he felt drunk. He vaguely remembered it taking him an entire liqueur store to get drunk and he realized he may have miscalculated. He continued though, opening up the next bottle and sipping at that.

He started crying, then called Dean again. He didn't answer, so he called Sam. He felt lonely, and desperate. He needed someone here to calm him down. He felt like a giant snake was wound around his body, slowly squeezing the life from him. He needed someone to pull the metaphorical snake off, to ward of the loneliness and the fear. After about 30 missed calls he decided to leave a voice mail.

"D-Dean? I wanted to say I'm sorry, for... everything. I love you, and Sam, and I never meant to put you in danger. I was... trying to help. E-everything I do I'm trying to h-help... But I'm a failure. I-I'm useless and I... I can't... talk... I'm drunk... You told me to s-stop trying to h-help. I-I shoulda listened... I w-wish I h-had..." He became too choked up to speak and he threw the phone across the room so it shattered against the wall. The bare white wall.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and pulled his knees to his chest. He was so small...

He crawled to the nightstand and opened up the drawer. Dean's gun was inside the drawer, cold and uncaring. He pulled it out and sat himself in the corner, staring at it. The safety was off, and it was loaded with 7 bullets, so it was full. He only needed one, though. One to end it all. He chuckled dryly, remembering Dean shooting this exact gun at him when they first met. He hadn't even felt it. Now it would completely kill him, end his life which was once so indestructible.

He also remembered Dean showing him his collection. He had carefully picked up this gun and showed it to Cas.

"And this beauty, Cas, is my gun. It a 1911 semi-automatic Colt. Bobby gave this baby to me," he'd said proudly. "It's my favourite. And no one touches her but me. Hear?"

His favourite.

Cas looked down at it. This was his favourite gun. No one touches her but him. So why was she here?

His drunken brain connected the wires and he started crying again. He set the gun down carefully in it's drawer and climbed up to the bed. He would put it off, if just for one night. He wanted to see if Sam and Dean showed up, if they still cared about him.

_(check out my account on AO3 for more stories, and chaptered fics! My name on there is Aristotle!)_


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